Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Dragons, Fairies, and Other Invisible Friends

I fill my dreams with beasts

That you cannot find in a zoo

The sort that frighten folk

Who have too much to do


I call them to me as one calls

A pet a or gentle friend

And with them all this day or next

I’ll have fun with no end


Monsters that hide beneath my bed

I shall never fear

For I keep my beasts-

Those watchful beasts- always ever near


And when i wake from sleep

And see my dreamy mates

I’ll rejoice- for I will be

With friends both true and great.


Written on the Back of a Library Receipt

Wait a little bit, oh dear

For my time to come.

For me to conquer touch of fear

And call my courage done.

Then from armoured breast my heart

Will burst the sealed drum.

It pains the blood to flow apart

While sobs and daydreams hum.

It may be long before I rest,

Forever in your arms,

But though I cherish still I dress

In chivalry- safe from harm.

My faults I quote, as does befit

A man who fortune warms,

And once again I will submit

How great your beauty’s charms.


I am a man of fashion old

Whose creed is not in vogue.

I feel myself a wander bold

Whose yoke is heavy load.

I wear this suit of armour cold

To keep my heart from rogues

Who would subvert and bend and fold

My creed to craft my goad.


So once again I will say:

I do not flee my maille.

But rather do I stand- and pray-

That you not name it jail.

To work from confines small- nay!-

As large as ocean’s gale

And not be like the stag at bay

Not like some shell born snail.


I play my role inside my mind

Where the land is long,

And never shall I ever find

A sweet and endless song

So great and peopled with so grand

A cast of right and wrong.

My home I make inside this land

For long as day is long.




Leafy green fronds waving in the breeze
Of underwater- water!- that flows so swiftly by
And carries fishy birds to the Northern seas.
Under it all, the clouds, the sun, the sky
There lies a world of murky currents
And secret places in the coral
And such the singular occurrence
As an octopus in the distinguished choral
Section of the band. Stood up on a box
That serves so well to show off the flow
Of the water- Water!- that is subtle like a fox
And outlives any and all of its foes.

Old Man Storm

I stepped out when I was young
Beneath a sky, cold and dumb
From which winds were tossed and flung
And the peace was broken.

I looked at it, face upturned
And asked a question that which burned
At my mind and now had earned
The right to be spoken.

“Old Man Storm, why do you frown?
Why do you glower as you gaze down
on our unflinching mortal town?”
The cloud gave no token.

I decided to try again
To get an answer, add to my ken
And find me out where I was when
The storm had broken.

“Old Man Storm, why do you sigh?
Way up there with the clouds so high
Where the birds are free to fly?”
The wind was unbroken.

“You blow and whistle with wind and breeze
And push and buffet at houses and trees
I ask you now, why do you do these?”
No answer there was spoken.

“Old Man Storm, why do you grumble?
With lightning crash and then thunder rumble
In the distance, like a quiet mumble?”
The thunder gave no token.

“Flashes of light and echoes of sound
Reverberate up, fall back down
To crash again upon the ground.”
No answer there was spoken.

“Old Man Storm, why do you cry?
Rain squeezed down from way up high
Cheeks of storm below eyes of sky?”
The rain fell unbroken.

“The weather washes the earth below
But what about the sky you know?
Does it get fixed by the stormy blows?”
There was no answer spoken.

Before too long the rain had stopped
The grass had dried, the clouds all dropped
Their weary load and then had popped
Like balloons, had broken.



A time of not actually being able to post leads to a build-up of writing. Here’s three weeks, or so.


My reflection in the window glanced back at me, eyes full of the storm that percolated outside. I knew that it was me, even if I didn’t recognize him. Common sense told me so. I turned my head this way and that, trying to find the angle of Me amid the lines and jaw of someone else.
My reflection complied with my movements readily enough, surely because it hoped not to be put to such lengths as the detached shadow of Peter Pan. But with every adjustment of the head and every stretch or relaxation of the cheek or eyebrow there came to mind a different boy that I had seen here or there in my life.
These crowds amongst the faces stood out from my reflection and waved me down to come and join them. But I have new promises to make and old friends to keep. So I shut those rainfall eyes and turn away to put down in black and white what I was thinking in shades without number.


I felt the raw electricity and charged power of the wind and the hiss of the leaves on the trees. The air was ripe with feel of rain on my skin, although no actual water had touched me.
The glitter bugs danced among the trees to light my path during the intervals of darkness that came between flashes of lightning. The frogs in the forest made their own chirruping clashes from amongst the trunks although the thunder was missing from the mix.
Then, suddenly, the rain-pregnant air gave way to the wind of storm-herald and I felt the first drops begin to fall.


Rain, child, like a summer day
Full of sunshine and drizzly pain

Sing, child, like a meadow lark
Wild in cherries as a smile can bring

Laugh, child, like an old coyote
Smile like the moon and it wants be half

Play, child, like a whippoorwill
Among the reeds after a long, hot day

Love, child, like a flea-bit dog
Never ask why the tears want flood

Live, child, among the stars
Come out at night full of hope to give


Scribble scratch of pen, black and white of ink on page. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Make sure the words fit and then feel as they flow out. Twist that letter a bit more, smudge those words together, paint in lines of doctrinated pattern to show the face of things under the dark light. A palindrome to show how much it means and an oxymoron to suspend reality and add disbelief.


Everyone has seen the shapes in the clouds- faces, trains, air planes, and all sorts of animals. But there are more kinds of clouds that are less shapes and more emotion. Fires with faces filled with tears, reflections on water that isn’t really there, and canopies to hide a moon that refuses to be hid.
Glowering ceilings full of rumble and crash, pretty tufts of bright, summer day, swirls and twist in three dimensions that disappear again in an instant.
But none of them stay around forever. The light and time and winds push and shove and change and mould until one clouds turns into another. Then it’s gone around the horizon.


Broadest of greetings, fair, lordly sun. A fair morning to be run along the ground. Freshest of breaths of wind across a lake of closest glass. Shards catch the light and glint a picture on a wall of cliff-face serious.

Closest of midnights, quiet, crescent moon. Teach songs to the meadow larks as they sleep. Guard we who find our solace in rest and watch us to keep away the night, and then show us how to find the light.

Brightest of glories, twinkling, little stars. Like eyes above the clouds that float in the sky.


I live in a land of wish-it-was
Between the silent starlight streams
Beyond a pale of dizzy fuzz
Made of valentines and silver moon beams

I live in a land of wish-to-be
In a castle far away
Built of bowling balls by the sea
It is my spring retreat by day

I live in a land of dreams-are-real
By night I fly my bird-wing kite
Above a sea with laughing seals
That watch my vicarious flight

Here in my land of time-matters-not
My life is a blur of flowers
If I ever had hardship, I’ve forgot
As I sit in my sunshine for hours

I live in a land of wish-it-was
Where I decide how things are
Where everything has hum and buzz
And I’ll never, ever travel far

Gold Pen Poem

A golden pen as if to make
The words inside seem fairer
A forceful stroke as if to make
The words inside seem clearer
Long lines of letters pushed along
After the light should be out
Stopping to listen at the sounds
Of movement from without
Then writing again in a flurry of strokes
From a pen of gold and ink
And all else is forgotten for a moment
Then stop again, listen, think

Write about what came before
Or what shall come again
Secret dreams and deep desires
Flow from out that pen
A bit of soul, and another of yours
Added to the mixing bowl
Then a pinch of love and a dash of pain
And flatten out and roll
A recipe for poetry, met not rhymed
Then forgotten once again
After it flowed out of that
Golden, dented pen

Silver tongues of tapestry
Weave a silver tale
And bronze in fiery furnace
Is beat to burnished mail
To gird the flesh of warrior bold
And keep him safe from harm
Or wrap about a writer slim
To keep him nice and warm
While poems and prose and nobility
With golden pen he writes
Pours out his soul and lifeblood red
Deep into the night

The Green King Saga, Parts 2 and 3

This is a momentous occasion, alright. This right here is the one hundredth post on this blog. Go and count ’em if you want, there’s a hundred. Seems like a lot, but it has been four months now. That’s less than one post a day, which means I haven’t been keeping my numbers up, but I warned you when I started. Anyway, I’ll keep posting and we’ll see if we can’t just get all the way to two hundred.

Sonnet VI (Octameter; Katerine)
The summer sun turns now to fall
And leaves begin to hit the ground
While Green King sits and watches all
While he, by vines, to throne is bound
He can do naught but watch and wait
For come of cold and creeping frost
Until that time he sits in state
King of a land soon to be lost
While leaves of gold, yellow, and red
Like flutt’ring gems of ruby-gold
Fall from trees now gone cold and dead
To land among the leaves of old
That landed there just once last year
And lie there still in rain-drop tears


Sonnet VII (Octameter; Katerine)
Now all is white and crystal fire
Around Green King and throne of trees
Dead-all, dead-all in frosty mire
And snow in mounds lies deep on leaves
The life is gone from all the world
And flung from sky are flakes of steel
That land upon the flag unfurled
And cut and bite ’til flesh can’t feel
And wind howls down between the twigs
Where once leaves lay in thick clusters
And runs against the Green King’s legs
To strip away strength he musters
And hide it in the dark’ning sky
Where all the snow and ice now flies

The Green King Saga, Part I

Sonnet V is written in Iambic Octameter. I sort of made it up on my own, and it works the same way as Iambic Pentameter, but with eight syllables per line instead. This is the first in four sonnets that I call the Green King Saga.

The Green King sits upon his throne
Beneath the hall of greenest leaves
Entwined with trunks like great tree bones
And branches form the great hall eaves
That bend and sway beneath the wind
Like great ship’s sails ‘neath swelling breeze
And to the night soft flow’rs extend
To seek starlight before the freeze
And ‘neath it all great Green King thrives
Upon his throne of sweetest oak
In soft, sweet, summer, sunlight skies
And ne’er a word did he there spoke
But rather then he kept his peace
Among the green and pleasant trees

Sonnet IV and More

Sonnet IV (Iambic Pentameter)

Thou hast a way, beguiling charms of face
And voice, to shift my view and change my mind
Away from sure and to unsure, I pace
Around in loop of time trying to find
A way to leave this land of loss and pain
To find myself back to the place I love
Where even night cannot forget thy name
And I proclaim unto the stars above
The object of my love, the purest one
Who shines beneath the moon for all to see
And glows, soft light and warm, beneath the sun
To show herself awake and kind to me
Where I now lay inside your charming arms
To keep myself safe now away from harms

And now for something which is not a sonnet.

A splash of gold upon the floor
A wave of beauty kindled bright
From a face that shines with light
It leaks in cracks beneath the door
To shine way into the dark
Among the thoughtless words, remarks
To show them all their truest form
A sadly sung, rejected lie
Which turns away grey almond eyes
And cries a book with pages torn
From words writ large upon the heart
That shine bright forth e’en from the start
To make the love, in ashes born
That shines out in deed and word
And in the slightest gasp that is not heard
By ears too tired and world-worn
To pay close call to tiny sound
From one whose love will keep him bound

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